


Present

by BrosleCub12



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Female John Watson, Forgiveness, Gen, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 08:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11870484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: The rather wonderful thing about it is that Sherlock doesn’t tell her to stop crying.





	Present

**Author's Note:**

> Another Watson-genderswap. Although the change in John's gender does mean a bit of canon divergence and a couple of obvious changes, everything else is basically the same as it is in the episode. It is therefore 'slightly AU' but still has its share of spoilers and obviously there's the genderswap on John's part, although you could still consider it a companion piece to my other Sherlock Series 4-reaction fic. 
> 
> As per, I do not own Sherlock.

* * *

 

There was once a man and that man was deeply, deeply afraid of Eurus Holmes.

He was nameless and unimportant – another security guard on the island, within the fortress of Sherrinford. Younger than the others, uninterested in the inmates and more so in the high pay for his confidentiality and his lack of ‘personal baggage.’

Eurus Holmes was Eurus Holmes – clever and insane and she knew things about her second brother, living a life of plentiful chaos in London, with, it turned out, a darling doctor friend by his side. He couldn’t remember having a sister, but there was another woman who ran beside him: one Doctor Joanna ‘Jon’ Watson.

She knew this, despite darling Mycroft’s initial attempts to shield ‘Jon’ from her knowledge. And she knew what the doctor would like. The doctor was Human, after all. Human and silly and with foolish issues of matrimony, at present. Eurus had seen the pictures; Mycroft had shown her once, resigned, during a visit. How lovely the bride looked; floral and smiling between her Two Important Men, Sherlock Holmes and Marcus Morstan, who looked upon each other as siblings, it seemed, according to Mycroft with a sliver of resentment in his voice that he couldn’t _quite_ hide. And how touching that her pirate brother had organised a wedding for his best friend, whom he would happily die for.

Of course, the groom later put a bullet into Sherlock’s chest but Sherlock was kind, Sherlock _forgave_ and so did Doctor Watson.

In the beautiful wreck of Eurus’ mind, one thing was obvious and so the security guard was summoned.

So in time – when everything was just in the right place – the security guard found himself on a bus, having been told to look a lot less pathetic than he did currently – _look attractive dear, it won’t kill you, literally_ – and waited to meet Joanna Watson with a big smile on his face and his heart hammering beneath his ribs because _Eurus_ was watching.

If he got this wrong, hell waited.

*

Jon remembers the man on the bus. He was sturdy and youthful – younger than her, by about a few years – and had stared at her, at the flower she had left in her hair on the other side of her combover. Embarrassing, a woman on the cusp of forty attempting to look feminine. Jon liked her hair, a style that both Sherlock and Marcus had agreed on heartily (stupid bastards and stupid her, for always subconsciously allowing her style to be something that they said yes to) and she liked her clothes, her button-up blouses, her jeans.

Marcus liked them too – he said he loved everything about her, even her temper.

The man on the bus gave her a number – _a_ number, it had turned out later, not _his_ number – and stumbled away, embarrassed and smiling and so young. Joanna thought of army barracks and the leg that still occasionally gave way underneath her. She thought of nappy-bins and her daughter’s smile. Greying hair; the bullet that had scarred her shoulder. The bullet that Marcus had put into Sherlock; the name of Watson she had given him in return to protect him from his past. If she couldn’t be Morstan – and clearly she couldn’t, because Marcus Morstan was little more than a long-dead child – they could both be Watson.

She kept the number.

The security guard met her once more, as arranged, just to tempt her back into it when she had a brief influx of common sense, as all people do, and shook her resistance to pieces as Eurus knew he would do and then he disappeared. Marcus died saving Sherlock’s life as the aquarium and Jon held him as he faded. She no longer texted the man on the bus and spent weeks blaming the demise of her marriage on Sherlock Holmes, because she was a stupid and selfish twat who was grieving and used that as her excuse to pile the blame on her best friend’s shoulders. He was a superhero to the world and to so many and yet he hadn’t been able to save Marcus with a flick of the finger, the same way he saved everybody else.

That Marcus himself was equally as capable, equally as powerful, was something she had chosen to ignore because it was too hard to think of her husband’s capabilities without remembering the bullet he had put into the chest of Sherlock Holmes.

Then she broke down in the living-room of 221B yet again and told the Two Important Men; one solid and still-standing and the other half-there and fading with forgiveness just what the hell she’d been doing when their backs were turned.

It was almost more shameful – no, no almost about it, it _was_ shameful, full stop – that Sherlock hadn’t even guessed; that he sat stunned in his chair for a split-second when she said the words. Hadn’t deducted it. Hadn’t suspected. Hadn’t expected his good doctor to be capable of anything like that, no clever comeback or witty retort that told her he knew, had known all along because Joanna Watson, the wisest and kindest human being he’d ever met, did many things but she didn’t _cheat._ She had history, but not this. Not infidelity. Not adultery, just as she had promised at the wedding that he had helped her to organise, that he had been her best man for.

She had turned away, unable to look at the expression on Sherlock’s face, feeling the very weight of his shock settle down on her shoulders. Marcus, standing by Sherlock’s chair, was no different; they both stared at her, uncomprehending.  They had stood beside her at the altar, and she had completely let them down.

‘I cheated on you, Marcus,’ she told him dully because there was no turning back now. She had always wanted to surprise them, both of them, the two clever men in her life – but not like this. Never like this.

*

(The body of the man on the bus was eventually found at the therapist’s house, alongside the therapist whom Joanna Watson was supposed to be seeing, while Jon found herself faced with a woman she’d never seen before who knew everything she’d texted and knew all about the third Holmes sibling.

‘Sherlock’s not your only brother,’ she had murmured in disbelief at Mycroft, right after putting _that_ particular brother in hospital and knowing that Mycroft’s eyes were on her; that Consequences were bound to follow right after they’d scoured the flat. At the time, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to care; Marcus was dead and Sherlock probably hated her now, so what did it matter?

_I got it wrong again,_ she thought in the office, finding herself faced with a gun as she tried to leave. Then, on top of that, as the so-called Eurus pressed the trigger, the realisation that - bloody hell - _she’d been flirting with a Holmes)._

*

The rather wonderful thing about it is that Sherlock doesn’t tell her to stop crying.

_Get the hell on with it,_ Marcus tells her, with one last smile, forgiving and then he’s gone, as though he never haunted corners of their house, corners of her eye. Seems happy enough, in fact, to leave his wife in the care of Sherlock Holmes.

Who right now, is slowly, carefully climbing out of his chair to hold Jon Watson up.

‘It’s okay,’ he murmurs, comfort in his voice, in the care of his hands and they just stand in the middle of the lounge for a long time, Jon sobbing into her hand, leaning into Sherlock’s chest. And there are none of the accolades of ‘Oh, pull yourself together,’ that she might have – would have – expected at the beginning of their friendship, none of the be-tough-to-be-kind rules he always seemed to live by, at the start.

‘Will caring about them help save them?’ he had asked, quiet and steadfast and stubborn, before he jumped, before he became a godfather to her daughter and she had shaken her head, fully aware she was losing the argument and loathe to admit it.

‘It is what it is,’ he rumbles above her instead and then his cheek is resting against her hair and it makes her sob even harder because it’s _kind,_ because he’s always been kind, hasn’t he – has treated Rosie like a princess since the moment she was born, calling her ‘Watson’ – something he never called Jon, oddly, even though he could have. Could have dispelled with her nickname, her army label; could have used ‘Jo’ or ‘Joanna’ but one was too short, too casual for Sherlock and the other too long for running around and barking orders during crime scenes. So Jon it was and Jon it remained; meanwhile, Watson became the girl who was born in the back of Marcus’ car, whose birth caused Jon’s bodily fluids to spill over Sherlock’s trousers.

_A euphemism if I ever heard one,_ she had thought dimly at the time, even as her daughter’s cries hit her ears for the first time and Marcus held their little girl up to the car-light and Sherlock’s hand had finally been released from her grip. She had held his hand fast that night, so good and tight and he hadn’t let go, hadn’t tried to, even though it must have hurt like hell.

She hasn’t been held by anyone – hasn’t allowed herself to be held by anyone – since Marcus’s funeral. Sherlock’s hand is warm on the back of her neck and not just from the tea he’s been drinking while they talked quietly, frankly for the first time in weeks. Being held by people - sympathetic, sickening and well-meaning – would make her the grieving widow, the single parent, the one who had cheated on her husband. So when people _did_ throw their arms around her, she didn’t do the same.

But now Sherlock knows the truth, the whole truth – that she blamed him for her husband’s death because it was easier than blaming herself, for not paying attention like an adult, like a wife and mother and soldier, for doing what she did – and he’s still _here._

She’s missed him. _Bloody hell,_ she’s missed him. She raises her arms and grasps his, something to cling to and like a poor, wounded heroine in a romance novel, finally allows herself to just let go, crumbling right into his chest as her wails grow, decibel by decibel, filling the lounge of 221b.

*

‘Sorry,’ she mumbles, sometime later, back in her chair as he hands her a whiskey from the secret stash he has in a cabinet; it brings back memories of her hen night, or rather just the two of them gallivanting around town like idiots and a faint smile tugs at her lips as he sits back down opposite her. Her face is grimy with tear salt but one of his handkerchiefs is pressed into one hand and she blows her nose, takes a sip.

‘No,’ Sherlock tells her, leaning back in his own seat, watching her with an open face, looking more awake than she has a feeling he’s been for a long time. Jon huffs, recognising with long practise Sherlock’s version of ‘Don’t worry about it,’ that he can’t be bothered to say; avoids his eyes, embarrassed, wonders if she could possibly get away with pretending none of that just happened. She grips her tumbler of whiskey, swallows it down, _calmly, calmly._ She’s a mother now, for cries’ sake.

‘I’m a bad one,’ she says aloud, to the thoughts in her head and Sherlock looks up. ‘I’m a bad Mum, Sherlock.’ It’s so matter-of-fact, so honest, because good Mums – they don’t do… this. They don’t have a baby, set up home and then go around flirting with random men on buses while it’s Daddy’s turn on nappy duty. Maternity leave was meant to be their time; starting anew. Her, Marcus and Rosie. And Sherlock.

True, she supposes most new mothers don’t go gadding around after mad detectives either - but that’s not the point. At least then, Marcus knew what she was doing. At least then, they were fine.

Or seemed to be, on the surface. To Sherlock, certainly.

She takes another sip of whiskey and suddenly finds herself trying not to retch. There’s too many long nights in the taste, too many late evenings of staring at the wall and talking to Marcus. His eyes were disappointed in her on those nights. _Look after Rosie,_ he had told her, his last request, and she had palmed their daughter off on anyone who would look after her. True, there were plenty of volunteers, but… for someone who doesn’t want to be labelled the grieving widow, she had taken great advantage of it to just be alone with whatever remained of her husband.

She doesn’t realise Sherlock hasn’t responded until she looks up – lost in her thoughts again, a good cry hasn’t pushed _that_ out of her system, yet – he’s kneeling down in front of her, wincing and she feels a fresh flush of guilt, warm on her neck, in her stomach and she suddenly wants to smash her whiskey tumbler against the wall.

_(Stop it now,_ she had bellowed at him and had grabbed his shoulders, pinned him with a strength that rage had lent her, heedless of the fright in his face and her fists had done the rest).

Sherlock puts both hands on the edge of the chair and gazes up at her. _Look at me._

‘I will not,’ he tells her, firmly, quietly, almost dangerously, despite the cut above his eyes, the thinness of his cheeks, the stubble on his face, ‘tolerate doubts of your parental abilities under this roof. Clear?’

Jon laughs, almost hysterical and with none of the humour. It’s so reassuringly him; she shouldn’t take it as a good sign, but the fact is she does; to realise she didn’t punch the fight out of him _(she’s entitled, let her do what she wants_ ) settles something inside of her, in fact.

‘I appreciate that,’ she replies, putting her palm to the air between them, ‘but I can’t - _you_ can’t switch it off for me.’ Belatedly, she adds, ‘You don’t have to.’

Sherlock raises an eyebrow but stands, wanders away to inspect the room, to reacquaint himself with…something. His skull, his bat collection, maybe he’s got cigarettes hidden somewhere. _Definitely_ a drug-watch, Jon decides. She doesn’t care if they need to accompany him to the toilet, even; he’s not being left alone anymore.

She huffs, rubs her forehead with a finger, looks him over – beaten and exhausted but determined underneath and then reflects that she, with bloodshot eyes, can’t look much better. It’s an oddly comforting thought. He’s a little… not grimy, particularly, he was looked after very well in the hospital once Mycroft took over plans for his care and she refused to leave his bedside, but he would benefit from a proper bath, a good shampoo, a shave, just to settle him back into himself, into his home. Just to… clean off everything that happened in the hospital, his time alone with Culverton Smith, his almost-murder that she battered a door down to prevent, all because Marcus had told Sherlock to do unspeakable things to himself to help Jon Watson.

_Wasn’t shooting him enough?_ Bloody hell; Jon thought she had issues – but those two idiots, both of them as dangerous, unpredictable and overprotective as the other… Is it because she’s a woman and it’s a case of two twats being territorial? Or would they be the same if things were different – if she too, was a man, or would they still be plotting things behind her back because she’s apparently worth dying for, worth killing for, without a clue? Worth keeping secrets from, to keep, as a best friend, as a wife? 

What the hell. What the hell.

It’s got to stop, she decides, if for no other reason than one of said idiots now happens to be dead – without hope this time, without reprieve. There’s a limit to the miracles Sherlock Holmes and Marcus Morstan have been able to wield between them and it stops here, it stops today.

She raises her glass for another sip of whiskey, mostly to take her mind off such prospects and then lowers it again before it reaches her mouth. Peers into it for a moment and then puts it down carefully on the table next to her chair, unfinished.

‘…not good?’ Sherlock is glancing at the whiskey he gave her and she shakes her head, pushes it away.

‘No, I just… don’t want anymore,’ she tells him, aware he probably understands. ‘Do you need anything?’ she asks, mostly to reiterate the focus on him; he’s been in hospital for a week, dehydrated, malnourished, beaten and going through withdrawal, after all. When she had picked him up today – no reason, she just did – they sat quietly in the back of the cab together, not saying much. There had been the unloading of his bag, which she had carried up for him and then a moment at the top of the stairs, when they had stood staring at each other like awkward children in a play before he hesitantly asked if she would like a cup of tea.

_Rosie,_ she had considering, _the surgery, Mycroft probably murdering me himself if he finds me here._

‘Okay,’ she had replied, just as tentative, even unlocked the door for him and that was how they found themselves sitting opposite each other in well-worn chairs, Sherlock explaining, with growing confidence and probably just for something to talk about, the whole Culverton Smith case. Jon suddenly wonders if Sherlock would have taken that alone – sharing tea with her and talking about murder, just like old times – as some sort of treat, especially considering what day it is. Some treat, she considers crossly, his widowed friend wailing the place down.

‘Sorry to be a mess on your birthday,’ she quips, however weakly, pulling the reminder back into the forefront of her mind, the date when Sherlock Holmes arrived to walk the earth with cutting comments and nice clothes and that earns her a smirk from the man himself, a raised eyebrow.

‘I’ve had worse,’ he shrugs and she reflects, with a jolt, that he probably has. She missed Sherlock’s birthday the first time, she supposes, when they moved in together, were getting to know each other – Jon adjusting to a life that was worth getting up for – and back then the thought of him celebrating her own was – and still is – laughable. Then it had just been… cases and a Christmas together and a life and her relief from the inside out that she could walk properly, be herself, be a doctor and a soldier, could use her gun to shoot at other people threatening Sherlock and not for something else.

Then of course, Barts and two years, two Christmases, four sets of birthdays missed. She wonders what Sherlock did during that time. She’s never asked, she reflects with a sudden clamour of shock in her stomach. He never told her and she never asked.

‘Right, come on,’ she stands, and gestures to Sherlock. Enough about her for one day; it’s Sherlock’s birthday and she wants, bloody _everything,_ she wants to forget. ‘Let’s go out.’

‘Sorry?’ Obviously, Sherlock was expecting her to leave to return to Rosie at this point because he takes a step back, blinks at her.

Jon considers; hadn’t thought this far ahead. Dinner? No – not that, not yet. Too heavy, too much, all at once, too reminiscent of some equilibrium they haven’t quite regained. Coffee? No, definitely not – no caffeine and anyway why pay for a hot drink in some overcrowded Caffe Nero or Starbucks that Sherlock will probably hate when they can make their own here?

Birthday, though. Sweeties. Something different.

‘There’s a place I know,’ she tells him, pulling the memory out of her mind somewhere, untouched until now because it didn’t mean a great deal, but now, it _could_ be relevant. ‘It does really nice cakes – very posh, bone china cups and everything. Went there with Archie’s mum once; not a date, obviously,’ she adds, hurriedly, ‘She was just trying to be nice after I patched Archie up following a fall and I was – never mind,’ she cuts off the _I was trying to be normal_ at the last second, although she guesses it’s implied; being ill never stopped Sherlock deducing, as proven by the events of the last two weeks, even if he does believe that some mystery woman turned up at the flat – or maybe she was just a dream.

And Jon does want to tackle that, just like she wants to tackle everything else, but not today. Not on Sherlock’s birthday.

‘Look, I’ll get cleaned up,’ she indicates her face, ‘and you – you get your coat on. And I’ll call Molly, yeah? She can bring Rosie along.’ It’s a shameless bribe, using her daughter as a persuasion technique, but she can’t regret it – not when it stills Sherlock, causes that proud chin to rise and stare at her with something like undisguised hope. It makes her feel worse at the same time – how the hell could she ever have separated them? – but. It’s a shot.

‘You…’ Sherlock swallows, uncertain again. ‘You don’t mind?’ It’s polite, an attempt to be non-intrusive. He’s trying to keep one step back, Jon realises, moments after taking her to task for criticising her own parenting skills. _Hypocrite,_ she thinks, fondly.

‘You’re her godfather, Sherlock, why would I mind?’ she asks, choosing each word with care, leaning against the back of the chair ever-so-casually and there it is. The thing that widens Sherlock’s eyes, stops his hands, like a cat detecting a fresh scent of whatever it is that Jon’s thrown into the room, letting it unravel and settle, gently. Jon counts his blinks – one, two, three and keeps their gazes fixed, sensing the wheels turning.

_I meant it. It’s not your fault._

‘…Okay,’ is what Sherlock says eventually. ‘If that’s alright.’ He finishes this with a smile though, a small one that he clearly can’t hide and Jon smiles back, feeling better. The rest, she decides, will have to sort itself out with time but this – this is one thing she can fix, today, by simply taking Sherlock out for cake.

Even if there is one thing that still pisses her off, however slightly.

‘Still can’t believe Irene Adler’s alive,’ she mutters, turning on her heel, wanting to feel outraged by even more lies but at this point, accepting the inevitable, that there are things that Sherlock Holmes has still not told her – things she hasn’t asked, or hasn’t explored closely enough. There’s probably a lot a more, she considers with a jolt, hearing Sherlock give a rather apologetic, guilty-sounding chuckle behind her.

‘Wait a minute,’ she stops outside the bathroom, a sudden realisation – the memory of stepping into the kitchen five years ago with the files under her hands through this very corridor – rocking her even further as she tracks back to stare at him in disbelief. ‘You let me _tell_ you she was dead, you bastard!’

He flashes a grin and it’s only his current injuries that stop her vaulting across and jumping on top of him. Instead, she shows him an extremely impolite finger that would have Mrs Hudson clipping her around the ear if she saw it and which she must _absolutely_ never do in front of Rosie; lets the bathroom door slam behind her.

She eyes herself in the mirror, puffy-eyed, salted cheeks, widowed. Irene Adler’s probably three times as glamorous, she reflects, running the tap and cupping her hands underneath the water. Douses her face with it, wipes away the grime.

There’s a light knock on the bathroom door.

‘You were lovely about it,’ Sherlock’s muffled murmur tells her, through the door. ‘You… believed it was important.’ A pause; Jon hums, trying to feel cross and failing. One more thing one of the bastards in her life kept hidden from her. ‘You didn’t let Mycroft tell me. You told me.’

Jon stares at the door in the mirror, wondering what this means, trying not to wonder if Irene knew that Sherlock was alive when she didn’t; if she saw Sherlock when Jon didn’t. Bit not good, if so. Jon really doesn’t like that.

‘Is it important now?’ she calls through the door, not expecting an answer, or for Sherlock to say anything at all – but to her surprise, he does.

‘She’s a lot like me,’ he tells her, some kind of admission. ‘She sees things, people. She’s asking about you,’ he adds, as though that means something and maybe that does. There’s a shuffle as his footsteps wander away from the door, as though sensing he’s said too much. Jon rubs the back of her neck, thinking about assuring it must be to have someone like you in the world, who understands what it’s like to be too clever, or too dangerous, or too _other_ – then splashes more water over her face.

_Enough,_ now.

*

‘It was just texting,’ Sherlock hesitates on the threshold, after double-checking all the details with her, as though unable to believe that Jon genuinely is taking him out for his birthday and that he’s going to see Rosie. He presses on, then before she can say anything, talks assurance, the old certainty creeping back into his voice with everything he says; that they’re all just human.

‘Even you?’ she asks, trying to make light of it and he stares her down, his ‘No,’ unwavering.

‘Even you,’ he rebounds, gently and there it is – some kind of absolution in his face. _I forgive you._ Jon glances away, the remaining flux of guilt that she suspects is going to be there for some time wavering in her chest. She wants to say more – _I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me; thankyou; I’m sorry_ – but she’s worried that if that happens, they’ll be here all afternoon.

_Not today,_ she decides again, meeting his eyes and Sherlock sportingly follows her lead when she cuts that conversation short, before turning on his heel. She watches him rummage around, slightly anxious at the sight; has he changed his mind?

‘What’s wrong?’ she asks, unable to keep the worry out of her voice; is this some random relapse? No – it’s just him looking for his deerstalker and he puts it on, over his limp curls and battered face, the undying detective and it makes her laugh, for the first time in weeks. _Normality_ and she seizes onto it with both hands, lets him stroll out of the flat first with a rather flippant comment about how he’s Sherlock Holmes and he wears the damn hat.

‘Isn’t that right, Marcus?’ he throws over his shoulder and Jon turns back. Her husband isn’t there, of course – he’s not _anywhere_ , anymore – but there are two chairs and a roaring fire and a detective who watched her talk to her dead husband without comment.

Alright, then.

When they get to the café, Molly is standing outside with Rosie in her arms, ashen-faced and anxious as they approach. Jon makes sure to smile, raises her hand in greeting; Molly nods, but it doesn’t shift the look on her face as her eyes flit between her and Sherlock. Jon quickly ducks her head, avoids both Molly’s stare and the very real notion that the pathologist is still really not happy with her – if she was silently angry with her before, for making Molly be the one to tell Sherlock _anyone but you,_ she’s been fuming since the business with Culverton Smith. Any word between them has been solely pertaining to Rosie’s needs, nothing else.

A lot of bridges to rebuild, but for now, Jon will start with Rosie and she retrieves her daughter from Molly’s arms, aware of Sherlock close to her elbow and he smiled as soon as he saw her.

‘Look, Rosie, look – it’s Sherlock,’ she kisses her head, hoping Rosie doesn’t hate her for abandoning her yet again for the afternoon; that’s another thing that’s got to stop, leaving her with other people while Jon gets her thoughts together. Her daughter shifts a little, adapting to the change and her head swivels to focus on the man accompanying her mother. Jon continues to rock her, watches Sherlock watching Rosie, anxiety swirling the pit of her stomach.

‘It’s his birthday today,’ she whispers in Rosie’s ear, trying to move things along swiftly; she doesn’t think she’ll forgive herself if Rosie doesn’t recognise him, if she recoils from the look of him, stubbled and tired and bruised. ‘Want to have some birthday cake with him? Yeah? Want to have some cake with Sherlock?’ She’s aware her voice, though soft, is bordering on slightly desperate – _please darling, please, **please** love your godfather again for me _ – and shares a look with Sherlock over the top of Rosie’s head.

A raised eyebrow. _Overcompensating._

A grimace. _I know. I’m sorry._

But: how much difference could a month make? Is it the thing that makes all the difference in the world?

‘Hello, Watson,’ Sherlock rumbles, eyes falling back to Rosie and Rosie’s face splits into a huge, toothless grin at the sound. Molly, brushing past Jon without a sound, hands Sherlock the rattle she’s been playing with and Sherlock, in turn, hands it to Rosie. Rosie takes it from him with a gargle, as Jon breathes out.

Then she throws it at Sherlock.

*

There’s a _lot_ to sort out; Jon can feel it peeking over some not so far-off horizon. Conversations, for one, about the Important Things: childcare and to some extent Jon continuing to take advantage of well-meaning friends; Lestrade, Mike Stamford, Molly, anyone who can help out as long as they’re able. More therapy; if not for her sake, then for Rosie’s. Mycroft turning up at some point and demanding answers from her regarding just what she thought she was doing when she used his brother as a punching bag – some heavy negotiations to keep her out of the Tower of London, perhaps. Jon can’t blame him.

But on this particular night, Sherlock’s birthday slipping to a gentle close, she’s drifting off on the sofa of 221b to the soothing sound of Sherlock’s burr while he carries Rosie around the room, showing her the face in yellow, the headphones on the skull, a butterfly collection he keeps in a drawer. He ate three different slices of cake today; Jon wants to kick herself for allowing it, but he’s been through hell. He’s allowed cake.

_Normality,_ she thinks again, staring at the ceiling with a gratefulness that draws her into a doze.

For now, at least, that’s fine.  

*

  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to write more female-John again and I've found it really hard. There was a much wider project I was working on post-Series 3 that followed a similar vein to this, only a lot darker and with a lot more angst. However, the more I worked on it, the more of a mess it became. Then I wrote this instead. It had its challenges; I can't justify many of Watson's actions in Series 4 and I really didn't want to do it here, because I felt that John's portrayal in this series was a complete let-down in many ways. But I wanted to explore it at least, and oddly I find it easier to write fem-John than I do 'regular' John (even though Elementary probably does it a billion times better). She's no saint, but she's hopefully no better or worse here than what we see on-screen.


End file.
